


Scars tell a Story

by IceJazzElleth



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drabble, Gen, One Shot, Regulus Black Deserves Better, Regulus Black-centric, Self-Harm, Short One Shot, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:00:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27374605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceJazzElleth/pseuds/IceJazzElleth
Summary: A short drabble where Regulus ponders various conflicts in his life that has lead to the creation of different scars across his body and his relationship with his family, especially his brother.
Relationships: Regulus Black & Sirius Black
Kudos: 22





	Scars tell a Story

There was nothing inherently magical about the thin red lines that sprang into life across his hip, Regulus pondered, watching as they blossomed. And yet… they felt as if they had some sort of power. Watching as his oh so noble blood welled across pale skin brought an unnatural catharsis to his painful existence.

He recalled, as he watched the blood rise, that his parents had told him (and his blood traitor brother) about the barbaric practices of muggles, who had nothing but mud running through their veins. They had placed leeches on their skin to suck out their worthless blood and called it healing. As if it did them any good. He had scoffed at their idiocy. Sirius had frowned.

Now, he wondered. Could there perhaps be an iota of truth to their madness. When he cast the spells (or sometimes used the knife), to cut the skin, he felt as if he were letting out a miasma of pain that flowed through his pure blood.

His finger played against the cut, picking up the crimson stain and holding it to his dark eyes.

If he were a muggle, he would no doubt be infinitely more familiar with the liquid. But the killing curse left no mark. Crucio drew no blood. So he rarely saw blood outside his own excursions.

Regulus always marvelled at the colour. It was brighter and more crimson than he felt it should be. The colour of Gryffindor.

And no house had had more blood spilt than that abode of Blood Traitors.

If the curses actually drew blood. Idly, he wondered where that phrase had come from as his eyes slowly shifted from one mark to another.

How odd it was, that at sixteen he had marked his body with a permanent scar – because it was easier to think of it that way now. The dark lines snaked across tender skin, staining his flesh. A mark to be proud of. One that proved his loyalty to the Dark Lord. Many would be honoured to wear the Dark Mark. Regulus was.

So why did it sit so heavy, like the rest of his scars?

The cause was just. Banishing Mudbloods from the Wizarding World made sense. Their presence marred the perfection that wizards and witches had struggled and fought towards. They introduced strange and alien Muggle contraptions and ideals, forcing it on the pure world of wizards. And Muggles were becoming dangerous – increasingly so. While they had left behind leeches, they had discovered weapons such as the Atom Bomb. Strong enough it could devastate even the Wizarding Community.

So why did his path sit uncomfortably with him?

Why was he, Regulus Arcturus Black, compelled to create beautiful lines across his regal skin? He sighed, knowing there was no easy answer. Some might say home life. Mother had a temper, Sirius had seen to that, and father was distant at best. But Regulus was the golden child, a perfect son. He did not make the mistakes that Sirius had highlighted in his brief stint as a member of the family.

Perhaps that was it. His estranged brother. Sirius had certainly caused the household to become fraught with his chaotic and traitorous ways. Yet they had scarce spoke since his fortuitous escapade to the Potters. To leave their number forever. That would no doubt cause turmoil in a young mind. It was as if his brother had died, for that was how they had spoke of him now. If at all.

He supposed, that those were easy things to blame. All things he had not chosen. Not like the Dark Mark that rested on his left forearm. Not like his choice to follow the Death Eaters, to become a murderer and torturer. Before he had even left school.

Last year, Sirius had graduated.

Even if Regulus had doubts – which he had to insist to himself he did not – he had no way to confide in the man who had once been family. He scarce knew what had become of his brother. What his results had been. Where he now worked. An owl would no doubt be able to find Sirius but that would mean initiating contact. Which would mean admitting he (and by extension, mother and father) had been wrong.

And that was harder than it was to cut his skin.

Scars told a story, Regulus supposed, starring at the lines that were to become scars and those that had long since settled into his skin. It would be a matter of some simple spells, some basic potions, and all but the Dark Mark could be washed away to give him a fresh start. But the lines told a story. Each spoke of stored pain, carefully etched into his skin so he wouldn’t have to feel it anymore. Because pain could be hidden in scars.

And what was the Dark Mark but the summation of the pain caused by the conflict between the magical and non-magical communities that had waged for millennia?

Regulus sighed to himself. His body was littered with too many stories to remember them all. The deepest he could recall. The ones that showed most on his pureblood skin. But there were so many light little stories that he could not recall. Such a curious notion, he pondered, tracing them.

Then Mother called. It was dinner. They were eating early. The Dark Lord had a meeting planned for the evening. Word was he would be requesting the loan of a House Elf and Regulus knew he would curry favour with his new master by offering loyal Kreacher. With a breath, the let his shirt fall down to hide the stories across his body and straightened his robes out. Mother called and she could not be denied.

Perhaps, when this war was over, he would seek out his brother and try to explain the stories. To find why he was compelled to cut. It would, Regulus mused, be nice to mend spilt blood for a change.


End file.
